


Blood Brothers

by Jenksel



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casskins, Dragons, Dragonslaying, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Married Couple, Pet Drama, Pets, arthuriana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17896475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: Franklin the tea dragon makes a shocking discovery about Jenkins and his past that threatens to destroy their relationship forever.





	Blood Brothers

“I swear, I’m gonna have to put a bell on that man!” Cassandra Cillian Jenkins muttered under her breath in irritation as she strode rapidly along the corridor.  She’d been searching for her husband for over an hour now, but Jenkins was nowhere to be found.

The frustrated mathematician was just about to give up when she suddenly heard a shrill, blood-curdling scream coming from somewhere ahead of her.   She froze for a moment at the sound, a cold stab of instinctive fear slicing into her chest.  The screaming was now on the move, coming towards her, with the added sound of little claws scrabbling against the tile flooring.  As she peered ahead into the dim hallway, she saw a small, familiar, serpentine figure round a corner and head straight for her:  It was Franklin, the tea dragon that Jenkins had adopted several months ago.  Cassandra winced at the loud screams and braced herself for impact.  Franklin was a very exuberant creature, and she expected him to leap up into her arms when he was close enough.  But, to her surprise, the little reptile streaked right by her and towards the Annex workroom, still screaming, and disappeared down the hallway behind her.

“Oh, Franklin,” she murmured to herself with a sigh.  “What kind of trouble have you gotten into now?”  The dragon usually only screeched like that when he’d done something he knew he shouldn’t have.  Cassandra turned back to the direction Franklin had come from and headed off to investigate. 

The Librarian turned the corner and immediately spotted a door cracked open to a room just off of the Dark Ages Wing.  Cassandra had never been in this room before; when Jenkins had taken them on a tour of the Library after they arrived here four years ago, he’d dismissed it as being nothing more than a seldom-used reading room that was now utilized as a storage space.  He hadn’t even bothered to open the door for them, just ushered them along briskly to see more important things.  How Franklin had managed to open the door was a mystery.  Usually he just squeezed beneath locked doors.  Maybe this one hadn’t been properly latched and worked itself open when he shimmied beneath it.  Either way, she’d better check it out and make sure he hadn’t broken anything.

The young woman pushed the creaky door open and flipped on the lights.  She halted in her tracks and gasped, her blue eyes wide and her hands flying to her mouth in amazement as she took in the amazing sight of this so-called “storage closet”. 

In the center of the huge room was a gigantic table, round in shape, of incredibly ancient oak that was nearly black with age.  Arranged around the table were thirteen large, throne-like chairs, also made of oak.  Two of the chairs, which sat directly opposite each other at the table, were larger and more ornately carved than the others:  One had a coat of arms consisting of three gold crowns carved into the wood of the back, the crowns highlighted by gold-leafing; the other had no coat of arms, but was instead carved with finely-detailed scenes of knights hunting, jousting, at war and in quest of the Grail. 

The young woman could barely believe her eyes:  The Round Table of King Arthur!  _The_ Round Table! Why had Jenkins kept this from everyone?

Cassandra entered the room and began to walk around it slowly, taking in all of its contents.  Armor, shields, weapons, banners, manuscripts and regalia were displayed everywhere.  All around her, covering the walls from floor to high-vaulted ceiling, were brilliantly colored and finely detailed frescoes, all depicting scenes from the lives of King Arthur and his knights.  The life-sized figures were so well-executed, so realistic in appearance that they seemed more like photographs than paintings.  Indeed, they were so life-like that she could almost _hear_ them:  The gentle laughter of the noblewomen, the jingling of horses’ tack, the clanging of sword blades upon each other, the shouting voices of the knights in battle.

The frescoes were divided into two registers.  The top register depicted scenes from the life of King Arthur, beginning with Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone and ending with his broken body being taken off to Avalon by the Ladies of the Lake.  The bottom register depicted scenes from the lives of various knights of the Round Table.  As she slowly circled the room and examined the paintings, Cassandra was stopped in her tracks in front of a section that depicted some of the deeds of Sir Galahad— _her_ Galahad.  Jenkins.

She stood and gaped in amazement at the images of her husband as a young knight.  Here he was, a young, scared-looking boy clad entirely in red, being led to the Round Table by an old man to take his place in one of the larger chairs—the very one that now stood at the table behind her, the one with all of the knighthood scenes.  There he was, further along, pulling a sword from a red stone that was floating in a river.  In another scene he was depicted fighting off several knights single-handedly, and in yet another he was shown finding the Holy Grail.  She reached out a hand and brushed her fingers against the face she knew so well, only this one was young, somehow boyish and mature at the same time, with thick, longish hair that was black as a raven, his fierce brown eyes flashing with fire of courage and determination.  He towered over the other knights, his long, lean, well-muscled body evident even beneath full chainmail armor.  He was incredibly handsome, far more so than she had ever imagined him as a young man, and for several minutes all she could do was stand and stare at the paintings, completely smitten by them.  She felt a soft, thrilling warmth spread from her belly and throughout her body as she imagined the strong arms of this young, robust Galahad wrapped around her, his lips brushing her throat.

Cassandra shook her head to dispel the images in her mind’s eye before they could go _too_ far.  As her eyes drifted over the scenes, she spotted one that depicted an episode she had never heard mentioned before in books, but which he had told her about in the past:  Galahad slaying an evil-looking dragon, its scales the color of fresh blood.  The dragon had been knocked to the ground, and the knight had one foot braced against the beast’s long neck as he sliced off its head with a sword, his face grim and resolute, the ground running red with its blood.  In the distance, grateful townspeople could be seen rejoicing at the death of the dragon that had plagued them.

While Cassandra studied the scene and wondered why Jenkins would keep all of this from everyone, it suddenly came to her why Franklin had been screaming and running away so fast—he must’ve seen _this_ fresco, recognized his beloved owner in the act of gruesomely killing a dragon, and completely freaked out. 

“Oh, no!  Poor Franklin!” she whispered to herself.  The little dragon must be so confused and scared right now by what he’d seen!  Now she _had_ to find Jenkins, quickly, and tell him what had happened.  She turned and ran back towards the workroom; hopefully Jenkins was back there now, too.

 

* * *

 

She was relieved to see that Jenkins had, indeed, returned as she burst into the room.  She spotted him, kneeling and bent over, his head almost on the floor as he peered beneath the map cabinet behind his desk, as he tried to coax Franklin out from underneath it.  As he heard Cassandra approaching, he straightened up on his knees to look at her, a worried expression on his face.

“Cassandra, something seems to be wrong with Franklin!” he said anxiously.  “He ran into the workroom a few minutes ago, took one look at me and then ran underneath this cabinet, screeching the whole time as if a pack of hellhounds was on his tail!”  He leaned over and peeked under the cabinet again.  Franklin was cowering against the wall, whimpering, his large black eyes bulging with terror.  Jenkins straightened again.

“I don’t understand; it’s as though suddenly he’s deathly afraid of me!” he said, completely bewildered.  “Every time I try to reach underneath the cabinet, he snaps at me!  He literally _snaps_ at my hand!  What could have possibly happened to make him feel this way?”  His wife laid her hand on his shoulder and gazed down into his worried brown eyes.

“I think I know,” she said, her voice mournful.  “I don’t think he’s afraid of hellhounds so much as he’s afraid of _dragonslayers_.”  She motioned for the confused man to sit in his desk chair, and then told him all about what had happened, how she had discovered the Arthurian-themed room, and her hypothesis regarding Franklin seeing the fresco of a very young Jenkins killing a dragon.  The old immortal’s face registered more and more dismay as she spoke.  By the time she was finished, his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were closed; he looked as if he was in physical pain.

“I should’ve known,” he sighed heavily, opening his eyes, his entire body sagging in his chair.  “I’ve _hated_ that room ever since I learned of its existence!  I even tried to brick it up once, but the Library wouldn’t allow it.  The next morning the bricks were gone, as if they’d never been.  How did he ever get in there in the first place?  Iesu!”  He slammed his fist on his desk as he swore, running his other hand over his weathered face in consternation. 

“Here, let me try,” Cassandra offered, getting down on her hands and knees.  “You go stand over there where he can’t see you.”  Jenkins moved off to stand at the foot of the spiral staircase and watched as Cassandra tried her hand at coaxing the frightened dragon out.

“Hey, Franklin!” she called softly to the little beast huddled against the back wall.  She gently patted the floor in front of her.  “Come on out, why dontcha?  It’s okay, you can come out now.”  Franklin blinked at her, his eyes darting around as he looked for the large feet of the Caretaker, but he could see nothing of them.  Desperate for comfort and reassurance, the little dragon began to creep forward.

“That’s it,” the Librarian cooed and smiled encouragingly.  “Come on, Franklin, it’s okay!”  He continued to crawl tentatively toward Cassandra, large black eyes carefully sweeping the nearby area for any sign of Jenkins.  As soon as he was close enough, Cassandra reached out to gently take hold of the tea dragon and pulled him the rest of the way out from beneath the cabinet.  She cuddled the softly whining animal and murmured to him as she tried to calm him down.  Franklin buried his face in her hair, his little body quivering.

“Aw, Jenkins, he’s shaking!” she said as she tried to comfort the dragon.  As soon as Jenkins started to move towards them, however, Franklin heard him and turned his head.  The moment he caught sight of Jenkins, the dragon began shrieking with panic again, nearly deafening Cassandra.  He squirmed from her grasp, sharp claws gouging into her skin, and crawled up onto the back of her shoulders, trying desperately to hide himself beneath her long read hair.  He peered out from behind her head and stared at Jenkins, then did something the old immortal had never see before:  Franklin flattened his ears and side-whiskers back, bared his teeth and hissed warningly at him, almost like an angry cat!

Jenkins flinched as if Franklin had actually bitten him, the tea dragon’s sudden animosity and rejection like a knife to the old immortal’s heart.  The stricken look that came to his face was enough to bring a lump to Cassandra’s throat.  She quickly turned her body in an attempt to block out Jenkins from Franklin’s field of vision.

“Wait here, sweetheart!” she called out as she hurried for the corridor.  “Let me put him somewhere safe and I’ll be right back!”  She decided to take Franklin to the Lepidopterarium to let him run loose and chase the butterflies collected there, one of his favorite pastimes.  As soon as he had relaxed and was happily terrorizing the residents of the Lepidopterarium, she shut him securely inside; chasing the butterflies would distract Franklin from his sudden fear of Jenkins, and she knew he couldn’t get into too much trouble there.  Cassandra ran back to the workroom and found Jenkins sitting at his desk again, looking absolutely miserable.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie,” she said as she went to him and gave him a hug to try and console him.  “I’m sure he’s just confused by that painting.  He probably just doesn’t understand that not all dragons are like tea dragons, or that not _all_ dragons are nice dragons.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” he agreed sullenly.  “But I’m afraid there might be more to it, as well, something even deeper.”  His brow furrowed as he pondered for a moment.  “Do you remember what I told you about my dragon tattoo?”

“You got it when you killed that dragon shown in the fresco,” she said, remembering the large dragon that was permanently inked onto her husband’s left arm and upper chest area.  “You said they mixed some of its blood into the tattoo ink, because it was believed back then that it would help you to be as strong and fearless in battle as the dragon was.”  Jenkins nodded his head in confirmation.

“Exactly,” he said, turning in his chair to face her and cocking his head as he spoke.  “It occurs to me that perhaps Franklin can actually _sense_ that blood within me.  Perhaps…perhaps that explains why he took to me so readily when we first met.  All this time he’s been laboring under the impression that, even though I’m clearly a human, I am somehow still…dragon- _ish_ , for lack of a better term?” 

“You mean, Franklin thinks _you’re_ a dragon?” asked Cassandra, astonished. 

“In a way,” he said.  “I think he senses something ‘dragon’ about me, and so, I theorize, that makes me a friend in his eyes.  Dragons—especially the smaller, more vulnerable species such as tea dragons—tend to avoid human beings at all costs.  I’ve always wondered why Franklin wasn’t more afraid of me, especially in the beginning; perhaps this explains it.”

“Okay, so maybe that explains why he likes _you_ so much,” Cassandra replied.  “But what about the rest of us?  _We_ don’t have any dragon blood in our veins.”

“Ah!  Yes, well, since I’m obviously the oldest one here,” he said, straightening in his chair.  “To Franklin, that would make me the ‘patriarch’ of this little family that he has adopted as his own.  In tea dragon society, family is all-important, and the elders are greatly revered for their life experience and wisdom; they’re always deferred to within the family unit.  I suspect that—as the dragonish patriarch—if _I_ say it’s all right for you all to be here, then Franklin would of course accept you all without question.  He views you as safe to be around because _I_ say it’s safe.”  Cassandra looked askance at him.

“’ _Patriarch’_?” she repeated, her tone indicating that she thought he was reaching.  Jenkins smiled and chuckled.

“Before you dismiss my theories completely, my dear, just remember—as my mate, that means you’re second only to me in terms of authority around here as far as Franklin is concerned,” he told her.  “We both outrank everyone else in the Library, including Eve and Mr. Carsen!”

“But if that’s true, I don’t see why he’s upset with you!” said Cassandra.  “If you’re the patriarch, then it should be okay if you kill a bad dragon, right?  Especially since you told us that the Eastern dragons and the Western dragons hate each other.”  Jenkins shook his head.

“No,” he said somberly.  “While it’s true that the two types dislike each other intensely, and there _is_ the occasional physical altercation between individuals, they _rarely_ kill each other.”  He adjusted his position in the chair as he spoke, unconsciously adopting the tone of a lecturer. 

“Most species of dragons have very few offspring—tea dragons are the notable exception to that rule—and the young ones take literally centuries to grow and mature.  An all-out war has the potential to wipe _both_ sides out completely, and neither side wants that.  They much prefer to simply ignore each other whenever possible, maybe harass an enemy when the opportunity presents itself.  But the intentional killing of even a _single_ dragon?”  He shook is white head and made a face of rejection.  “That would be viewed as a tremendous loss to the whole; regardless of the reason for the killing, it’s akin to cold-blooded murder in their eyes, and the ones who _do_ kill are dealt with very harshly by their kin.”  Jenkins heaved a heavy sigh.

“When Franklin saw that painting, he interpreted it as only a dragon can,” he said.  “To him, I’m a murderer, and if I can kill one dragon, then I certainly have the capacity to kill more.  And being such a small dragon, he feels even more vulnerable to attack.”

“But surely he wouldn’t think that you would kill _him_?” Cassandra exclaimed.  “He knows you love him, he knows you could never hurt him!”  The immortal gave her a doubtful look.

“I thought so, but now I’m not so sure,” he said sadly.  Cassandra could see him struggling to keep a brave face, and it made her heart ache.  If Jenkins’s relationship with Franklin was irretrievably damaged, Jenkins would be crushed at the loss. 

“There has to be something we can do to make him understand!” she said, refusing to let her husband give in to despair.  “We just have to think!  I’ll talk to the others tomorrow as soon as they come in, _surely_ we can come up with something; just leave everything to us!”  Jenkins looked at her and smiled wanly.

“Perhaps,” he said, taking her hand and patting it affectionately.  “Certainly if anyone can think of a solution to a problem like this, it should be this unorthodox lot of Librarians!”

 

* * *

 

After their conversation, Jenkins went to the lab and shut himself inside for the rest of the day, burying himself in his work; it was an old habit he had when it came to dealing with particularly stressful problems. 

Cassandra went to the Lepidopterarium to let the tea dragon out and give him his dinner before he could decide that butterflies might make for a tasty snack.  Franklin seemed to be much calmer now, but Cassandra noticed that he kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, presumably for Jenkins, as she carried him to the kitchen to feed him.  He gobbled his food down in record time, then shot out of the kitchen and disappeared, presumably to hide somewhere in the Library.

Cassandra tried to cheer Jenkins up when he finally emerged much later from the lab to meet her for dinner, but his smiles were forced and he ate only a few bites his food, spending the rest of the meal just picking at it.  An air of bleakness hung about him, and Cassandra could easily feel his pain, sadness and anxiety through their Sealing bond.

Later in the evening when they retired to their suite, Cassandra made some tentative romantic overtures, thinking that maybe her husband would find some comfort in lovemaking, but to her surprise and alarm Jenkins gently refused, something he had never done before.  They went to bed, neither of them able to sleep as they lay quietly together. 

Eventually, Cassandra drifted off out of sheer tiredness, but it wasn’t a proper sleep. 

When she awoke it was four o’clock in the morning; Jenkins was already up and gone.  The Librarian turned on the lamp on her nightstand and then lay in bed, staring dejectedly up at the ceiling, wondering what could be done next.  As she racked her brain for a solution, her eyes wandered over the design that was painted on the bedroom ceiling depicting lush green forests and meadows carpeted with all kinds of flowers under a clear blue sky, a crystal-clear brook running through the bucolic scene.   Jenkins had told her that it was the ancient Welsh afterlife, a place called Annwn.  According to him, the eternal life in Annwn for a departed soul was just like life on earth, except without pain, suffering, loss or sadness.  There was only happiness and joy there:  Feasting, singing, tournaments, hunting.  Souls were reunited with their lost loved ones, never to be parted again.  For those who had spouses and lovers waiting for them in Annwn, Jenkins informed her shyly, there was also much happy “physical intimacy”, as he had called it.  She could still hear the wistful longing in his voice as he described the place to her.

She took a deep breath and sighed.  There just _had_ to be a way to communicate with Franklin and make him understand that Jenkins would never hurt him, that Jenkins _had_ to kill the dragon he saw in the fresco.  If there was just some way to illustrate that point to him...

Cassandra bolted upright in bed, her mouth hanging open.  _If there was just some way to illustrate that point to him!_

With a shriek of excitement, Cassandra threw the blankets aside and scrambled out of bed.  She ran to her dressing room and quickly threw on her clothes, not even bothering to shower.

She had to call Jake and Ezekiel right away!

 

* * *

 

Jacob Stone wasn’t too happy about being pulled from a sound sleep before the crack of dawn, but as soon as Cassandra told him about the Arthurian Room, what she had discovered there, and explained the situation between Jenkins and Franklin, he forgot all about his pique.  She needed his and Ezekiel’s help to patch things up between the old knight and his dragon, and the historian was so excited over her discovery of a room that contained the Round Table itself that by the end of their phone conversation he was nearly babbling as he promised her that he and Ezekiel were coming right over.

Jenkins was still nowhere to be seen as Cassandra waited impatiently by the Back Door for the two young men.  She suspected that he was hiding out in the lab again, his refuge.  As soon as Jake—accompanied by a very sleepy and grumbling Ezekiel—arrived at the Annex, Cassandra grabbed each man by an arm and dragged them to her suite of rooms.  There she explained exactly what she wanted to do, and the three Librarians got to work.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra poked her head into the lab a few hours later.  She spied Jenkins sitting hunched over a large granite mortar, desultorily grinding a quantity of frankincense with a heavy pestle.  The air in the lab was redolent with the rich scent of the freshly-ground resin.

“Jenkins!  Come with me!” she said, bouncing over to the old immortal and grabbing his arm with both hands, pulling on it so hard that she nearly caused him to drop the pestle he was holding.  He turned his head to stare at her in surprise; she noted the tiredness and melancholy that dulled his normally bright brown eyes.

“Why?” he asked snapped sullenly.  Cassandra only tugged harder on his arm.

“Because I think I’ve found a way to explain to Franklin what’s up with that painting!” she answered, refusing to let him wallow in his unhappiness one second longer.  “Come _on_!” 

“Cassandra, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he said as he placed the pestle in the mortar.  “But I don’t think…”

“Oh, hush!” she ordered him, giving her husband a warning look.  “Just come on!  You’ll see!”

She pulled the large man to his feet and literally dragged him all the way through the Library to the Arthurian Room.  When she pulled him inside, Jenkins was surprised to find Jacob Stone and Ezekiel Jones already there.  He was even more surprised to see Ezekiel firmly holding onto a clearly agitated Franklin.  As soon as the little dragon saw Jenkins, he began to struggle frantically and cry out, desperate to get away.  Ezekiel held him fast, however.

“Cassandra, what’s this all about?” Jenkins demanded, hiding his renewed pain with surliness.

“Sit down!” she ordered.  Jenkins hesitated, so she got behind him and physically pushed him toward the Round Table and one of the smaller chairs.  Jacob, already standing next to the table, had a large flat box made of rosewood and ivory resting on the tabletop.  As Cassandra pushed Jenkins closer, Jake pulled out the large chair with the carved scenes and started to seat himself in it.

“NO!” shouted Jenkins suddenly.  He rushed around the Table and grabbed Jake’s free arm, roughly yanking him away from the chair so hard that Jake heard the muscles in his shoulder pop.

“ _What the hell_ , man?” Stone yelped, rubbing his shoulder as he gave the older man an irritated glare.  Jenkins stood tall and ran a hand nervously down the front of his suit coat.

“My apologies, Mr. Stone,” he said repentantly.  “But you cannot sit in _that_ chair— _no one_ can sit in that chair.  Except me.”  Jake looked confused for a moment, and then it came to him.

“The Siege Perilous!” he whispered, suddenly awestruck.  He turned his head to stare at the throne-like chair.  “That’s really it?  That’s really _the_ Siege Perilous?!”  Jenkins nodded.

“And _what_ exactly is a Siege Perilous?” asked Ezekiel sourly, still struggling to hang onto Franklin.  Jake gave the Australian a look of disgust at his ignorance.

“Only the best knight in _all the world_ could sit in the Siege Perilous, Jones!” he said.  “Only the knight who was the purest of heart, who was destined to find the Holy Grail could sit in it, according to legend.  And the only way to determine who that knight was was to have them sit in the Siege Perilous!”

“And legend, in this case, is true.  This seat was destined for me, and for me only,” continued Jenkins soberly.  “To this very day, I am the only one who can sit upon it and remain unharmed.”

“Sooo…okay—what happens if someone _else_ sits in it?” asked Ezekiel, glancing cynically at the massive chair.

“They would be incinerated on the spot,” answered the old knight, his face like stone. 

“ _What?!”_ yelped Cassandra, her head whipping around to look at her husband.  She had never heard the story of the Siege Perilous before.  She suddenly remembered the scene on the wall just a few feet away, and she was horrified to know that a young boy had been made to risk his life in such a cruel and capricious way. 

Ezekiel stared at the old man for moment, thinking he was joking.  He quickly realized it was no joke.

“Oh, yeah, okay!  I guess that qualifies as ‘perilous’, then!  _Aces_!” retorted the thief loudly, rolling his eyes and adjusting his grip on the still-squirming dragon.  “Can we get on with this, please, before this overgrown gecko starts shredding my _very_ expensive shirt right off of my back?!"

Cassandra, pale-faced, hurried over and pulled out chairs for Jenkins, Ezekiel and Jacob, each sitting down in turn, studiously avoiding the Siege Perilous.  They all faced the redheaded Librarian:  Jenkins with wary trepidation, Jake with eager excitement, and Ezekiel with irritated boredom.  She turned to face Jenkins and took a deep breath.

“Okay, long story short:  It occurred to me that if Franklin could see this fresco and interpret it,” she waved her hand to indicate the depiction of Galahad slaying the dragon.  “Then it stands to reason that he can look at _other_ pictures and interpret those, too.”  She nodded at Jacob.

“Jake and I did some research, and we found an artifact that might help us do that.  I think we’ve found a way for Franklin to look at something that shows him visually the context of what was going on in the fresco and _why_ you had to kill that dragon,” she explained, looking intently into Jenkins’s doubtful eyes.  “And, more importantly—hopefully communicate to him that you would never do that to _him_.”

Jenkins sat quietly for a few moments, thinking.  Franklin was still trying to get out of Ezekiel’s grasp and crying piteously; it hurt the old immortal deeply to see his beloved little friend trying so hard to get as far away from him as possible.  Though he tried to hide his anguish, it was agonizing to think that Franklin actually believed that Jenkins could harm him.  It had never been the Library’s policy to use its artifacts for personal gain, but Jenkins was willing to try _anything_ now to make Franklin understand that he meant no harm to the little dragon.  He turned back to Cassandra.

“What do I have to do?” he asked quietly, almost too afraid to hope for success.  Cassandra smiled brightly at his willingness to at least give her idea a chance.

“Nothing!” she said.  “All you have to do is sit there and let Franklin do the work.”  She turned to Stone.

“Jake?” 

Jacob turned to face Ezekiel and the frightened dragon.  He stretched out his hand and snapped his fingers to get Franklin’s attention.

“Hey!  _Hey_!  Franklin!  Look at me, you little monster!” 

Franklin stopped squirming and turned his head to look at Jake, blinking his shiny black eyes, startled by the sudden loud sounds.  Jake stared Franklin in the eye and spoke soothingly to him until he was sure he had the tea dragon’s undivided attention.  He stood up and turned to the Round table to open the ornate box, and lifted out its contents:  A large, round, flat piece of highly-polished obsidian, about two feet in diameter.  Jenkins’s eyes widened and he looked at Cassandra.

“The Mirror of T’ang?” he questioned, confused.  “But, what...?”

‘You’ll see!” she cut him off, her voice confident.  She turned to Jacob.

“Ok, Jake,” she said, nodding.  He dragged another chair to the place where Cassandra had been standing and propped the mirror up in its cushion, then angled it so that the dragon fresco was reflected in its surface and could be seen by everyone from their chairs.  Almost immediately, the mirror began to glow with a cloudy, silver light.  Franklin ceased his fidgeting and turned to stare at it at once.  Soon, the light dimmed, and through thinning, smoky clouds a scene appeared:  A small medieval-looking town, its inhabitants busy about their day’s tasks. 

Suddenly, a large, dark shadow could be seen passing over the ground, and an ear-splitting roar filled the room.  The townspeople looked up, frozen momentarily with surprise.  Without warning, a curtain of flames fell from the sky above them, killing dozens of the staring people instantly and setting fire to several nearby buildings.  The remaining townspeople quickly recovered their senses and began to run in all directions, screaming in fear and panic. 

Franklin watched raptly as a huge, blood-red dragon dropped from the sky and landed in the town’s square.  It was a monstrous beast, its main body about the size of a pickup truck, with a long tail and neck, huge, leathery wings and long, hooked claws.  It had dagger-like fangs the color of old ivory, and reddish, massive goat-like horns the swept back from its forehead.  It raised its head and roared again into the sky.  Before the dragon began to drop its head, it loudly sucked in a lungful of air.  It opened its wings wide as it lowered its head and swept it in a semi-circle, exhaling a stream of flames that set alight every building in the square and incinerated dozens more of the terrified, fleeing residents.

Franklin, his black eyes widened with fright, gave a loud squawk of terror and scrambled to hide behind Ezekiel.  The little dragon peeped out from around the thief, his tiny body trembling as watched the destruction continue to play out in the mirror.  He’d heard stories from his elders in Yunnan about the dragons who lived far beyond the borders of China, but he’d never seen one before.  The stories his elders told were blood-curdling:  These foreign dragons were cruel, vicious, selfish and greedy, and they were not above gobbling down any small tea dragons who wandered too far from the safety of their families—though Franklin thought that perhaps this part was only a story told to overly-curious hatchlings just to frighten them into staying close to their parents.  Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

 Franklin continued to watch the grisly scene unfold, all the time cowering behind Ezekiel and whimpering softly in distress.  Franklin had never before seen a dragon cause such devastation.  The sky dragons of China were good and kind beings, they brought only rain and good fortune to all; it was human beings who were destructive and had to be feared.  The longer he watched this Western dragon continue its rampage, the more distressed and frightened Franklin became. 

Suddenly there appeared in the mirror a rider on a large, sturdily-built black horse.  The rider was dressed in chainmail armor, with a snow-white surcoat marked by a simple red cross.  On his left arm was a round shield with the same markings as the surcoat.  He was accompanied by another man without armor, on a smaller brown horse and carrying several long, pole-like objects.  The two stopped at a distance from the red dragon.  The one on the black horse jerked his helmet from his head, and Franklin squeaked excitedly as he recognized a much younger Jenkins, in the days when he was known as Galahad. 

The knight tossed his helmet to the ground and, without a moment’s hesitation, seized one of the poles from the other man, startling him.  The Librarians now recognized the pole as being a long, heavy lance as the knight swung the point forward.  Galahad spurred his horse hard, and the animal launched forward, his panicked companion shouting for Galahad to come back.  Galahad ignored him, adjusted his grip on the lance as he raced towards the dragon, at the same time bringing the shield up. 

The beast heard the horse’s pounding hoof beats and swung its head around.  As soon as it spotted the knight charging toward it, the surprised dragon turned its huge body slowly to face him, snarling with rage at this unexpected resistance to its attack on the village.  It raised its head, sucking in a breath of air as it prepared to char this foolish human into a pile of smoking ash.

But the monster had misjudged both the skill of the knight and the speed and power of the knight’s horse, a fine, powerfully-built destrier.  It also made the fatal mistake of turning its body to expose its underside, that part of its anatomy being armored with much thinner scales.  They could withstand arrows and spears—even most crossbow bolts—but not a razor-sharp lance as it was rammed into its breast by an experienced knight riding full-tilt on horseback. 

Galahad expertly aimed for a spot between the scales that covered the animal’s heart.  The lance struck exactly where the knight had aimed, but the haft of the lance shattered under the impact before the lance tip could fully pierce the dragon’s heart through.  The monster, its snout still pointed toward the sky in mid-breath when it was struck, exhaled the flames meant for Galahad harmlessly into the air as it roared in pain. 

Galahad pulled hard on the reins, and the finely-trained destrier stopped and turned with incredible agility just before horse and rider could crash headlong into the beast.  Between the blow of the lance and the loss of the blood that now gushed from its partially-damaged heart, the dragon lost its balance and fell over sideways onto the ground. 

Still, the dragon tried to strike at the knight, slashing viciously at him with its claws as it fell.  It barely missed Galahad, but caught his horse in its flank, the dragon’s talons opening three deep furrows in its flesh and breaking its rear left leg.  As the horse screamed in pain and toppled over, Galahad sprang from the saddle and ran towards the dragon’s head, smoothly drawing his sword as he went.  When he reached its head, Galahad planted his foot on the beast’s neck, just behind the jaw.  He grasped the sword’s hilt with both hands and raised it as high overhead as he could, then plunged it with all his strength into the monster’s skull.  The blade was a magic one, and it pierced the bone easily, passed through the dragon’s brain and pinned its head to the bloody dirt below.

Instantly, the creature stopped struggling and fell almost completely limp.  Galahad yanked his sword free, and with a single, smooth stroke, cleanly sliced the dragon’s head from its long, muscular neck.  The dragon’s body shuddered a few moments, and then was still.  Galahad bent and grabbed one of the horns, then lifted the long, heavy head up into the air, its tongue lolling loosely from its mouth.  He shouted to the hiding townspeople, telling them the beast was dead.  He repeated the words over and over as he held up the head and turned to display it to all, while the survivors timidly began to appear from their hiding places.  As they broke out into a cheer, the image in the mirror clouded up and faded until it was completely gone, leaving nothing more than the polished stone surface to reflect its surroundings.

Throughout the brief showing, Jenkins had remained still as a statue, his face pale and completely blank as he relived the incident.  The mirror hadn’t shown that Jenkins had had to put down his mortally wounded horse, not realizing how badly he’d been hurt at first.  He remembered the night the little stallion had been born—a sick, thin, weak creature that everyone expected to die within hours.  As Galahad watched the coal-black foal struggle valiantly to stand, something touched the knight.  He saw that even though he didn’t have strength of body, the foal had great strength of heart, and Galahad felt he should be given a chance to live.  He stayed with the little foal that night, helping him to stand steady every few hours so he could nurse from his dam.  Galahad bought the plucky animal from the owner, took him and his mother into Galahad’s own stables, where he raised and trained the foal himself.  He was an intelligent animal, a quick learner, and it wasn’t long before the sickly foal grew into a powerful mount.  Galahad loved the horse with all his heart and he was the knight’s constant companion through many campaigns and battles.  The day he had to end his friend’s suffering with his own hand was one of the most painful in Jenkins’s long memory.  He still felt the loss deeply.

Cassandra had watched the scenes with her hands over her face and only able to peep through her fingers occasionally, utterly shocked by what she saw, and gasping loudly when Galahad heedlessly charged the dragon.  Jake and Ezekiel were utterly fascinated by the show, cheering and high-fiving each other as they watched Galahad charge and slay the dragon, then remove its head.  Their enthusiasm quickly died, however, when they noticed Jenkins’s somber, ashen face.

“Oh, my God,” Cassandra breathed, turning to her husband with wide eyes.  “You just... _charged_ at it!  You didn’t even stop to think or plan or anything—you just... _ran at it_!  You could’ve been _killed_!”

“No,” he countered quietly, his voice flat.  “I was immortal by then; it couldn’t kill me.”  Cassandra gaped at him in horror.

“Oh, well, great!” she finally snapped shrilly, suddenly finding herself very angry with Jenkins.  “It could’ve just _burnt_ you to a complete crisp, then!  No big deal!”  Jake and Ezekiel exchanged uneasy glances.

“Perhaps we should discuss this later, in private?” said Jenkins, turning to look down pointedly at his furious wife. 

“Oh, you _know_ we will!” she hissed sharply as she remembered that they weren’t alone.  She also remembered the reason she put this whole thing together in the first place, and she looked around quickly for Franklin. 

The tea dragon was huddled behind Ezekiel and still staring at the blank mirror.  He understood now that he had misinterpreted the picture on the wall.  Bái Shān _hadn’t_ killed the dragon for sport; he was forced to kill it in order to save the lives of other humans, some of whom were perhaps members of his own family.  Tea dragons rarely engaged in physical violence, even in times of danger, preferring to hide from enemies or predators until it was safe again.  But, sometimes, even among his own kind, violence was necessary in order to save the life of a family member when they were under attack. 

Franklin turned to look at the fresco.  He shuddered as he remembered the destruction caused by this Western brute, heard the screams of the humans as they tried to flee its deadly attacks.  Bái Shān had had no choice.  He _had_ to kill the beast, otherwise it would’ve simply gone on to kill and destroy more and more humans and their homes. 

The little dragon suddenly felt very ashamed of himself for having thought that his beloved Bái Shān could ever be a heartless, cold-blooded dragon-killer, for thinking that Bái Shān could ever hurt _him_.  The old human had shown Franklin nothing but love and kindness; how could Franklin have been so foolish and cruel to him in return?  Had he not sensed from the very beginning that Bái Shān was good and wise and trustworthy?

Franklin jumped down from the chair and turned to Jenkins as the others watched.  With his long head held low to the ground, tail, his ears and long side-whiskers drooping, and with soft little moo-ing sounds of submission, he slowly slunk over to the tall immortal.  When he reached Jenkins, Franklin reached out and gently laid a tiny paw on the toe of one shoe, all the time looking up contritely at the patriarch and whining as he tried to convey to him how sorry he felt for having thought such horrible things of Jenkins.

Jenkins understood what Franklin was trying to express to him, as clearly as if he’s used words.  Almost dizzy with the relief that washed over him, he dropped to his knees from his chair and picked the up the penitent tea dragon, holding him against his chest.

“Franklin!” he murmured, emotion catching slightly in his voice.  “ _There’s_ my happy little fellow!” 

Franklin, hearing the familiar words that he knew indicated affection, began to wriggle with joy and squealing loudly— Bái Shān forgave him!  He raised his head and started licking Jenkins’s face ecstatically, half-grunting and half-shrieking with happiness.  Jenkins burst into harsh bark of heartfelt laughter and gingerly lifted the excited, wriggling animal to set him on the floor.  The immortal playfully pushed Franklin over onto his side, then started scratching the soft, finely-scaled belly.  Franklin rolled onto his back and simply screamed with delight, his long tail lashing back and forth as Jenkins continued to scratch the little reptile’s belly and neck. 

Cassandra stood next to the reconciled pair and watched, tears of happiness coming to her eyes.  Behind her, Jake and Ezekiel quietly repacked the Mirror of T’ang back into its box and left the Arthurian Room.  Even though it wasn’t even noon yet, the two young men gave each other a quick fist-bump as they headed to the Fountain of Youth, intent on celebrating the successful completion of this latest ‘mission’ with a couple of cold beers.

 

* * *

 

“How on earth could people make a fourteen year-old  kid sit in a chair that may or may not kill him?!” demanded Cassandra, coming out of her dressing room that night after changing into her nightgown.  “And do you want to explain to me now why you were so reckless with that dragon?!”

“That’s simply how things were done in those days, I’m afraid,” he replied lightly as he turned down the blankets on their bed.  He refused to look at her as he spoke.  “Children had to grow up much faster then than they do today.  And as for your second question:  I was in a bad place at that point in my life, that’s all.  I just didn’t care what happened to me.” 

“But _why_?” she persisted, plumping the pillows on her side of the bed.  Jenkins sighed and stood up.

“Is that a follow-up for the first or the second question?” he asked.

“The second one.”

“Because...”  He paused for a moment, trying to find the words.  “Because, at that point in my life, I was feeling...lost.  I had found the Grail, my sole purpose in life had been achieved.  I was now immortal.  What does one _do_ with immortality, especially when one has _already_ fulfilled one’s lifelong goal?  I was a young man faced with the task of answering that question, of finding a way to fill an _eternity of time_ , and the prospect was...overwhelming.”  He bent to fluff his own pillows.

“Is that why you don’t like that room?  Because it reminds you of that time?” she asked, watching him curiously from across their large bed.  Jenkins paused and stared down at his pillows, his eyes unfocused.

“In part.  Another of the reasons why I don’t really like talking about that time—the _main_ reason, actually—is because whenever I think about the past, _my_ past and about Camelot, I always feel so…hollow inside, so utterly and completely… _empty_ ,” he said, his voice distressed and low as he suddenly struggled to find words.  “I always feel as though something that I once held very dear, something that I loved very much…was…lost.”  He paused and frowned.

“No, not lost,” he amended thoughtfully.  “ _Taken_ is a better word.  Not Camelot, not Arthur, not my fellow knights—but… _something_ was taken from me.  I struggled for centuries trying to find out what, but I never found the answer.  Eventually I gave up; the feeling is simply too painful for me to bear.“  He shrugged his shoulders and sighed heavily.

“I wish I could put it into better words than that, but…I can’t,” he said, a slight note of regret in his voice as he threw his hands into the air.  He stood straight again and looked at her, forcing cheerfulness into his words.  “But, as they say, all’s well that ends well, yes?” 

Cassandra smiled, but picked up the hint.  He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so she mentally filed the subject away for another time, when he was in a more talkative mood.  She climbed into bed and slipped her legs beneath the covers.  Jenkins took off his robe and laid it at the foot of the bed, but when he hesitated to join her, she looked quizzically at him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.  Her husband gave her a hesitant look.

“I know you normally don’t like to have him in the bedroom with us, but—would it be all right if Franklin slept with us tonight?  Just this once?” he asked sheepishly, sounding for all the world like a little boy asking if his new puppy could sleep with him.  Jenkins had already spent the entire day with Franklin, playing with him, taking a nap, ‘rebuilding their bond’, as he called it, as though he and the dragon had been separated for years instead of a few hours.  Cassandra laughed, glad to see her husband so happy again.

“Of course he can!” she said.  Her breath caught in her chest at the beaming smile of pure joy that lit up his face.  Jenkins trotted quickly toward the bedroom door.

“In fact, he can sleep with us whenever he wants,” she said.  Surprised, Jenkins stopped and looked over at her.  She held up a warning finger.  “ _Except_ during sexy time, of course—then he _has_ to go outside!” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, and Cassandra nodded, smiling.  He grinned and, with the closest Jenkins could ever come to actually squealing with delight, hurried over to the bed to give her a quick, but heartfelt, kiss.

“You are the best Tree-wife _ever_!” he murmured happily, then headed back for the bedroom door.  He pulled it open and there was Franklin, sitting patiently outside and looking up expectantly.  Cassandra realized then that Jenkins and Franklin had probably already cooked this up between them somehow.  She rolled her eyes and slid down into the covers.

“Come on, you two, let’s get some sleep!” she said to the pair of plotters. 

Jenkins scooped Franklin up from the floor and carried him into the bedroom.  He set the dragon down on the foot of the bed, then snapped off the lights as he climbed in and settled himself under the blankets.  Cassandra rolled over onto her side, expecting Jenkins to spoon up against her back as he usually did, but to her surprise she suddenly felt a small, cool, scaly body with sharp little claws wriggling against her back as Franklin wedged himself in between the two humans.  She yelped with surprise, but before she could move away Jenkins draped his long arm over both dragon and wife, sighing as he cuddled them both close.  She remained still, smiling to herself in the darkness.

“Goodnight, sweetie!” she sang, truly happy for her husband. 

“Goodnight, my love,” he answered contentedly.

“Goodnight, Franklin!” she sang again, teasingly.

The little dragon grunted and yawned loudly in response, then buried his snout into her long red hair as he happily settled in for the night.

 

* * *

 

In the wee hours of the morning, as the trio slept peacefully, a spot at the bottom of the bedroom door began to glow with golden, glittering light.  Cassandra, sleeping with her face to the door, woke up.  Frightened at first, she remained motionless and almost called out to Jenkins, but then decided to wait and see what happened. 

She watched in amazement as a small, rectangular hole appeared in the bottom of the heavy oak of Jenkins’s and Cassandra’s bedroom door.  Almost immediately after the hole appeared, a heavy, vinyl-like flap that looked exactly like the bedroom door, except in miniaturized form, appeared and covered the hole.  Finally, there appeared a sturdy oaken panel that could be slid into place over the flap and locked from the inside.  It also was made to look just like the large bedroom door, complete with a tiny brass doorknob and lock.  The key to the lock materialized on a long brass chain that was looped over the large knob of the regular-sized door, right where it could be easily found. 

As the golden light dimmed and disappeared, Cassandra grinned and stifled a giggle.  The new miniature ‘door’ was just the right size to allow a certain small animal to have free access in and out of the bedroom.  Cassandra turned her eyes up to the ceiling.

“Thanks, Ray!” she whispered softly, then closed her eyes and snuggled beneath the blankets to go back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this. :D


End file.
